


Save Me (From The Dark)

by ghostboi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Confessing love, Depressed Sam Winchester, Depression, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Idiots in Love, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam is lost and sinking, Scared Dean, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, mentions of Jessica Moore - Freeform, pre-wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-17 12:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12365658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostboi/pseuds/ghostboi
Summary: "Sam,” Dean’s voice was a cracked whisper as he rushed forward and knelt next to his brother. He ignored the blood seeping into the knee of his jeans as he shook his brother, “Sam, what the fuck did you do?”Sam's in a bad place. Dean doesn't realise just how much his brother is struggling.(Request fill)





	Save Me (From The Dark)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JakeTheSnake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JakeTheSnake/gifts).



> Please read tags.  
> Vague-ish depictions of a (failed) suicide attempt.  
> Requested a thousand years ago by Jake - not quite what you asked for, but it's what crawled out of my head.
> 
> Too much going on the past few months (hell this whole year) - haven't been able to find words to write anything. Apologies, I've missed you all ❤️

Santa Clara, Utah. Voted the previous year to be one of the safest towns in the state, so wasn’t it ironic that Sam and Dean Winchester were hunting for something which was killing its citizens?

It had taken four days to track down the thing which was leaving bodies with missing organs for the past three full moons. Four days, the clock ticking down until the full moon passed; not enough sleep and far too much frustration. 

The creature turned out to be an _aswang_ , a Filipino creature which fed on human organs. Her human form had been the local librarian: quiet, shy and very unassuming. Sam had found the connection the last night of the full moon – all the previous victims had been frequent visitors of the local library.

Taking down the creature had been far too close for comfort (not that they all weren’t); it had gotten in a few good blows on both brothers before Sam had leaped at it, and rammed a crucifix with a pointed end like a stake through its chest, straight into its heart.

They carted the body out of town limits and burned it. Their nerves were raw and both were exhausted and, in typical fashion for two brothers who lived in one another’s pockets, they ended up in a fight on the way back to their room.

Dean threw out “careless” and “could have gotten yourself killed” and “never pay attention” as he ranted from behind the Impala’s wheel. Sam stared out the passenger window, cringing minutely at every phrase thrown at him which reminded him of their father. He grew weary of it as they climbed out of the car, and finally shot back,  
“Fuck you, Dean. I didn’t see you doing any better against that thing!”

“Always with the attitude,” Dean shot back angrily, unlocking the door and entering the room, “You never can listen with the damn attitude. Sometimes I think Dad’s right about you, Sam.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he halted just inside the door, scowling at his older brother.

“Forget it,” the other man shot, “I’m done with this. I’m going out.” He shoved past the bigger man and toward the door. Sam bit his lip, brows furrowed, as he heard the other mutter, “Should have left you at Stanford.” Seconds later the door was slamming shut; a minute after that, he heard the rumble of the Impala’s engine.

Sam stared at the door that his brother had just slammed, trying to swallow past the ache in his throat. He hugged himself as he began to shake, blinking against the sudden wetness in his eyes. 

Dean didn't mean it. He told himself that as he stood, staring at the door. He was just upset. He didn’t mean it.

He blinked and forced himself to turn away from the door. Dean wasn’t going to walk back through it anytime soon, so staring at it wasn’t doing him any good. Sam tugged off his jacket and dropped it to the floor, then sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. His clothing followed, ending up in a pile at the foot of the bed. 

He sat on the bed shivering, not entirely from the cold, and stared blankly at the floor for a while. He felt lost, alone and quite small, despite his large build. These were feelings which had been plaguing him increasingly, and he wasn’t certain what to do with them. 

Truth be told, that feeling of being lost and alone had been haunting him since before Stanford. Seventeen years old and discovering he was madly in love with his brother had only exacerbated emotions brought on by their dangerous, unstable and often solitary lifestyle. 

Stanford was supposed to have been his escape from that jacked-up lifestyle, from those feelings, from the hopelessness of realizing he was in love with the one person he could _never_ have. It had been reprieve for a while: he had met Jess, fallen for her, had the opportunity to live the normal life he had always wanted. 

Sixteen months later and his fiancé was dead, that life was gone, and his brother couldn’t stand the sight of him more often than not.

What the hell was he going to do with himself when Dean told him to piss off and leave?

He was shaking again. He raised a trembling hand and brushed it against his face as something tickled his cheek, and his fingertips came away wet. Great. Shaking _and_ crying. Wasn’t he just every bit the badass that hunters were supposed to be?

Ten minutes later, Sam was standing in the large bathroom. For a kitschy-themed motel room, this one had a huge bathroom with both a shower and a separate, good-sized bathtub. One of the Honeymoon Haven’s selling points, he supposed.

He tossed his clean clothes on the countertop and crossed to fill the bathtub, placing the bottle of whiskey he had carried in with him on the tiled floor next to it. He sat on its edge, arms crossed over his chest as he hugged himself, and watched as the mirror slowly fogged up from the steam of the water. He turned off the faucets after a bit and shed his boxers, then stepped in. The water sloshed against his skin as he folded his long legs into the tub, warming him, and he laid his head back with a heavy sigh. He opened his eyes after a long minute of basking in warmth and steam, and reached for the whiskey bottle.

 

Dean was sitting at the bar in the local watering hole, attempting to drown his frustrations. It wasn’t really working, but it didn’t stop him from motioning to the bartender for another shot. He finished off his beer as he waited; when the bartender placed the shot glass in front of him, he threw that back, too. 

Dean sighed, thoughts touching on his little brother. He frowned as he recalled the hurt on Sam’s face several hours ago, as he was stomping out of the motel room. He knew he had been hard on Sam, but he had been upset and, yes, scared: that monster had nearly taken his little brother out during that fight, her claws coming perilously close to the younger man’s neck. He didn’t do the whole talking thing very well anyway, and his concern and fear had come off as anger and, now that he thought about it, what could have been mistaken for contempt. 

Fuck.

Dean ran a hand over his face as that realization hit him. An image of Sam’s face popped into his head again, that hurt look in his brother’s hazel eyes, and he shoved away from the bar. That tiny, nagging feeling that had been bothering him since he had walked out of the motel room was back, stronger now, raising hair on the back of his neck and causing his heart to speed up. He swallowed as he threw money on the bar to cover his tab, fighting it down. Sam was fine. He was probably in the room, getting drunk or hell, even asleep. He was fine.

Still, Dean’s steps quickened as he exited the bar and headed for the Impala.

 

Ten minutes later, Dean unlocked the door and entered the motel room. He glanced around the room as he shrugged out of his jacket – Sam’s bed was empty. His eyes fell on the closed bathroom door and the line of light shining from beneath it. He tossed his jacket over a chair in the room’s corner and moved toward his bed. 

“Sam.” Dean cleared his throat and continued, “Don’t fall asleep in there. We, uh, need to talk when you’re done.” He glanced at the door again, a slight frown creasing his brow at the lack of response. Sam was pissed at him, then.

With a sigh, Dean reached his bed. He saw the piece of paper lying atop the bed covers, two words - _I’m sorry_ \- scrawled on it in Sam’s writing, at the same moment the scent hit him. Sharp, metallic. He raised his head and breathed, “Sam”; he was at the bathroom door three seconds later. 

“Sam!” Dean pounded the door with his fist, his heart slamming against his ribs, “Sammy!” 

No answer. With a harsh curse, he threw his shoulder against the door, breaking free the lock. He half-staggered into the room as the door gave, and his eyes immediately scoured the room. His eyes locked on his brother, sitting in the bathtub. Sam’s head was lying back against the rim of the tub, eyes closed. He looked as if he was sleeping, but that iron-scented smell of blood was stronger now. 

Dean rushed across the space to his brother’s side, freezing as his eyes fell to the blood on the floor, pooling around a whiskey bottle which was three-fourths empty and a small, silver knife he knew Sam kept in his duffel with several others, and seeping into the seams of the tiled floor. His eyes found the source a second later: Sam’s arm was hanging over the tub’s edge, and blood was dripping down his hand, from the tips of his fingertips.

“Sam,” Dean’s voice was a cracked whisper as he rushed forward and knelt next to his brother. He ignored the blood seeping into the knee of his jeans as he shook his brother, “Sam, what the fuck did you do?” The other man was unresponsive, and Dean pressed his fingertips to the younger man’s neck. He could see his brother’s chest rising and falling but he had to make certain it wasn’t his imagination, he had to be _sure_..

A curse of relief escaped his mouth as he found the pulse, slow but steady, still. 

“What the hell, Sam? Fuck!”

He reached into the tub, slipping an arm beneath his brother’s neck to raise him up. His eyes fell on the younger Winchester’s face as Sam’s eyes blinked open suddenly. The other stared up at him blearily – Dean wasn’t certain if it was because of the liquor he had consumed or blood loss – and muttered, “Wha’ you doin’ here?”

“The fuck, Sam,” he breathed, fighting back the sudden lump in his throat that wanted to express itself as a sob. “Can you stand? Sammy! Can you stand up?”

“Mm,” his brother’s head lolled sideways as hazel eyes fell on him, “Maybe.” 

Dean slipped an arm around his brother’s waist and, standing, hauled the younger man to his feet. He gripped tight the other’s slippery form as Sam swayed, one foot slipping in the tub. 

“C’mon, Sam,” Dean instructed, taking hold of the other’s arm to steady him, “Step out, okay? C’mon.” 

When his brother was out of the tub and in the main room, Dean guided him to sit on the bed’s edge. He rushed to his duffel and snatched the first aid kit out of it, jerking it open to rifle through it. Seconds later he had a roll of gauze and was back at Sam’s side.

Sam flinched as Dean gently gripped his wrist to study the cut. Dean was certain it needed stitches, and he _wasn’t_ certain they were the type he could do himself. His hands shook as he wrapped the entire roll of gauze around the other’s wrist, trying to slow the bleeding. When it was secured, he reached for the duffel on the bed behind Sam and started pulling articles of clothing from it. He found a pair of clean boxers and knelt next to his brother, whom was watching him with half-closed eyes. 

“’m tired,” the other muttered, eyes slipping fully closed.

“No!”

His eyes jerked open to look at Dean at the man’s outburst.

“No. You stay awake, Sam. C’mon, gonna get these on you and get you to a hospital.”

He was struggling to tug the boxers up Sam’s damp legs when his brother spoke, words slurred from alcohol (he hoped),  
“Why’re you scared, Dean? You look scared. You shouldn’t – “ The younger man swallowed, half-raising his uninjured arm to reach toward Dean’s face, “Mad at me?”

“No, Sammy,” Dean swallowed hard, his own voice wavering. Fuck, he could not break down right now. “I’m not mad, just – just worried about you.” He managed to get the boxers up his brother’s thighs, then urged Sam to stand so he could pull them up completely. When that was done he grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around Sam’s shivering shoulders. He jerked the Impala keys out of his pocket before locking his eyes on Sam’s face again.

“Can you walk? Fuck, fuck it, I’ll carry you.” Seconds later, he had the big man scooped in his arms, one arm beneath his shoulders and one beneath his knees. He shifted the man’s weight with a low grunt – Sam was bigger than him and a bit of a strain – and ignored his brother’s wide eyes and protest of,  
“Put me down!”

He ignored the demand and carried his little brother out of the room, to the Impala.

The hospital was seven minutes from their motel. Dean made it in three.

Two minutes after that, he was following the nurse pushing Sam into the Emergency Room in a wheelchair, answering another nurse’s question and digging an insurance card (fake name) out of his wallet.

His eyes shifted to the nurse as the woman asked, “Was this a suicide attempt, Mr. Young?” He stared at her blankly for a moment, his focus still on his brother, and she gentled her voice and asked softly, “Did your partner try to commit suicide?”

“No,” he lied, shaking his head, “No. He was hanging a picture and fell off the chair, arm went straight through the window.”

“Okay,” the nurse made a note before raising her eyes to him again, “He’ll be okay. We’ll take care of him.” 

Dean nodded, swallowing hard as his eyes fell on his brother again. 

Thirty minutes later, Sam was lying in an ER hospital bed, his left wrist stitched and neatly wrapped in gauze. The younger man was sleeping, and Dean took a moment to study him.

His brother’s face was pale beneath the harsh ER lights, and he had dark circles beneath his eyes. He had been struggling since Jessica, Dean knew that. He just hadn’t known it was this bad. How could he not have known? He ran a hand over his face and muttered a low curse beneath his breath. How the _fuck_ had he not noticed how much Sam was struggling? The signs were there: nightmares, not sleeping, weight loss, barely eating some days. Dean had chalked it up to his still-raw emotions over his fiancé and the stress of their job.

He swallowed as he studied his baby brother, chest aching. If he had walked into that motel room tonight fifteen minutes later than he had..

Sam stirred in his sleep, brow creasing, and Dean reached out and brushed his fingers against his little brother’s cheek. “S’okay, Sammy,” he murmured, “I’m right here.” The other settled at the sound of his voice; the tiny smile that touched his mouth had Dean aching all over again.

Sam slept for the hour they waited, after his wrist was stitched, to be discharged. He slept in the car, tucked up against Dean’s side (Dean’s doing). He was half-asleep when Dean guided him into the motel room.

It wasn’t until he had his brother tucked into bed and Sam’s hazel eyes on his face, that he asked, “Why, Sam?” 

Sam swallowed visibly, eyes dropping to the bed covers, before whispering, “Figured you would do better without me.”

“You thought –“ It was Dean’s turn to swallow as he ran a hand over his face, “Why would you think that? Why - ? _Sammy_.."

His only response was a soft, broken sob as Sam turned his head away. He reacted on instinct and crawled onto the bed next to his brother, fully clothed and boots still on. He slid beneath the blanket and pulled Sam into his arms, stroking his hair as his brother sobbed softly against his chest.

“m sorry,” Sam pressed his face against Dean’s neck – Dean could feel the tremors wracking the other’s body – “m sorry, Dean. Keep fucking up. I’m sorry.”

“Ssh, no,” he laid down, tugging his brother down and shifting them so Sam’s head was resting on his chest, “No. It’s okay, baby boy. It’s okay. I’ve got you, Sammy.” Pain at hearing his baby brother break down was crawling up his ribs, rooting in his chest and trying to crawl up his throat to choke him. He tightened his arm around Sam and held tight, rubbing his back as Sam finally fell asleep.  
When his brother was asleep, Dean slipped out of the bed to strip out of his boots and jeans, which were stained with dried blood. He tossed them to the floor at the foot of Sam’s bed, then headed for the bathroom to clean up the blood he knew waited for him.

 

His first thought when he opened his eyes, squinting against the one ray of sunshine that seemed to slip through the window blinds and hit him right in the face, was that he felt like complete shit. His head ached, his left arm ached, hell his entire body ached. What the hell had hit him, and then backed over him again, last night? He shifted, freezing as he felt something pressed up against his back. Correction: not something, someone. Sam blinked and glanced over his shoulder, eyes falling on Dean. His brother was asleep, spooned against his back with one arm slung across Sam’s waist. 

Sam blinked again and raised a hand to rub at his eyes. Maybe this was a dream. Why else would Dean be lying in bed with him? His eyes fell on the white gauze wrapped around his wrist as he raised his hand, and the previous night came rushing back to him.

Oh, fuck. _Fuck!_

Sam swallowed hard, staring at his wrapped wrist. He remembered drinking mouthful after mouthful of whiskey; and he remembered being upset. No, not upset. Shattered. He swallowed, recalling the feelings that have overwhelmed him last night; the drunker he had gotten, the more agitated he had gotten. The more those feelings of self-doubt and self-loathing grew. Then the knife from his duffel bag. Flashes of memory after that: Dean carrying him to the car; bright lights and people in scrubs; his brother’s assurance of “I’ve got you.”

Sam closed his eyes and swallowed down the lump in his throat. Had he really wanted to kill himself last night? Had he really wanted to die? He started in surprise as his brother’s deep, husky voice murmured near his ear, 

“How you feelin’?” 

“I –“ he faltered, brow creasing. How the hell was he supposed to answer that? “Like shit,” he finally said, deciding on honesty. 

“Imagine so,” Dean shifted behind him but didn’t move his arm; if anything, his hold tightened, “You drank a whole lotta whiskey.”

He nodded, biting his bottom lip. He wasn’t certain how to address the proverbial elephant in the room. He didn’t have to bring it up himself, he discovered thirty seconds later. Instead, it was Dean whom asked, 

“You wanna talk about last night?”

His voice was a rough whisper as he answered, “Not really.” _Coward._

“Sam..”

Sam raised his eyes as Dean shifted, raising himself up on his elbow. The younger Winchester shifted to his back to meet the other’s green gaze. 

“Why, Sam? Why would you – Was it me? Did I drive you to – to that?”

“No!” he shook his head, “It – Dean, no. It – everything caught up with me. Jess, dad, this shit we see every day, fighting with you.. it just, it caught up with me.”

He swallowed when he saw the pain lining his brother’s features and finished with, “I’m sorry.”

“I know I suck at – at talking about shit, Sam. I know I do. But – don’t – I’m right here. I’m here if _you_ need to, or if you need to hit me or – fuck, Sam. I can’t. I can’t lose you like that.” Dean’s voice dropped to a whisper; his eyes were wet as he raised them to meet Sam’s, “ _Please_. I can’t lose you like that.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I was – I don’t know. I’m sorry, Dean.”

“I love you, Sam. Can’t lose you.”

Sam nodded and started, “Love you too, Dean. I didn’t –“ He was cut off as his brother interrupted, 

“No. You – I _love_ you, Sammy. Fuck, fuck me, I do. When I found you last night, I thought – for a minute, I thought – fuck.” 

Sam stared at the older man, stunned. Dean was biting his bottom lip, hand shaking where it rested against his waist and fear touching his green gaze. 

“Dean,” his own voice was little more than a whisper, his heart thudding against his chest and his breath catching in his throat.

“I know it’s not right,” Dean’s gaze dropped to the bed covers for a moment, before lifting to meet his own again, “I _know_ it’s not, Sam, and I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have said it, but I almost lost you last night. I can’t –“

“Me too,” Sam whispered, interrupting Dean’s struggle for words. 

Dean’s green gaze shifted to him again. “You –“

“I love you, too, Dean,” Sam bit his own lip, voice hoarse in uncertainty and his own fear that his brother was be disgusted by his words, “For forever now.”  
Instead of disgust on his brother’s face, Sam saw what he wanted to believe was hope. 

“You mean that?” Dean raised a hand to brush his knuckles against Sam’s cheek. He nodded, and a warm smile touched the older man’s mouth.

Sam sighed softly, leaning into his brother as Dean pulled him closer. 

“I need you with me, Sammy,” his brother murmured, hugging him close, “I need you to stay with me. We’ll stop hunting if that’s what you need, but I can’t lose you.”

“We save people when we hunt,” he caught Dean’s thin t-shirt in his hand, clutched at it, “That’s what we do.”

“Then talk to me if you need to talk,” it was a plea, almost, “Or we’ll find you a therapist, or whatever it takes. Just, please Sammy..”

“Won’t leave you,” he closed his eyes as Dean’s lips brushed his forehead and the other held him secure. Realization sunk in, fully hit him, and warmth flooded him. His brother loved him. Loved him in the same way he loved Dean.

A smile touched his mouth as Dean whispered near his ear, “Better not. Death’s probably a badass, but if I have to, I’ll fight him for you. We’ll make this work, okay?”

He nodded in agreement, feeling safe and _home_ for the first time in a long time.


End file.
